


Desire

by i_claudia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Implied Relationships, Regret, Socks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-03
Updated: 2009-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:44:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Omitting parts of the truth isn’t quite the same as lying. Albus Dumbledore examines the Mirror of Erised and meditates on the nature of socks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desire

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/16661.html#cutid1). (03 January 2009)
> 
>  
> 
> _“What do you see when you look in the mirror?”_
> 
> _“I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks.”_
> 
> _Harry stared._
> 
> _“One can never have enough socks,” said Dumbledore. “Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.”_
> 
> _It was only when he was back in bed that it struck Harry that Dumbledore might not have been quite truthful. But then, he thought, as he shoved Scabbers off his pillow, it had been quite a personal question._
> 
> _~J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone page 214_

After the boy left, Albus turned to the mirror, studying its frame absentmindedly. It hadn’t been difficult either to find it or to bring it to Hogwarts – a few discrete letters to the right people and it was done. Little was beyond the reach of Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Order of Merlin First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. They’d even put him on a Chocolate Frog card, an honor usually reserved for famous wizards only after they were dead for at least a century.

Yes, he thought wryly, fishing a lemon drop out of his pocket. There were very few things he could not somehow acquire or discover, at least as far as the Wizarding world was concerned.

He studied the inscription, the mirror frame’s gilt paint reflecting the soft light from his wand. _Erised stra ehru..._

He hadn’t been lying to the boy about what he saw in the mirror. Socks were warm, functional, comfortable. They spoke of cozy nights by a fire, curled up perhaps with a cup of tea or a tot of gin. They spoke too of someone to share that coziness with – someone who cared enough to knit the socks in the first place. He had seen the sweater Harry wore, and would bet his best hat it was Molly Weasley’s work. For a brief moment, he wondered if the boy fully appreciated the care, the hard work that had gone into the gift.

So no, he hadn’t lied when he’d told Harry he saw himself with a pair of socks. He had neglected to fill him in on the entire picture of what he saw, however. There was no need for the boy to know, and besides, eleven was far too young to understand even if Albus had been inclined to tell him the full truth.

The room was growing colder, and he shivered slightly, pulling his robes closer around him. The mirror stood before him, impassive, reflecting only the empty room. He gritted his teeth. Enough hesitating, he told himself. He had nothing to fear from the mirror; he knew its tricks, had confidence in his ability to retain his own mind despite its power.

That knowledge didn’t make it any easier to look into the mirror, did nothing to soothe the hairs rising on the back of his neck no matter how much he rebuked himself for giving in to his superstitions.

He took a breath and stepped in front of the mirror.

He was young again inside the mirror’s world, white just beginning to streak his auburn hair. It was Christmas; stockings hung over the fireplace he was stretched in front of, cheery bright things already stuffed with small, carefully wrapped packages. He sat in an armchair, utterly relaxed, feet propped up in front of the fire, a book in one hand. Another man – no, Albus thought, not just a man – _Gellert_ , his blond hair just the slightest bit silvered, leaned over the top of the chair the younger Albus sat in, one hand reaching down to tousle Albus’ hair affectionately, grinning the same smug grin Albus still saw when he closed his eyes.

Without quite realizing it, Albus took a step forward, nearly reaching out to place a hand on the mirror. Ariana sat curled up in the armchair across from him. She looked up when Gellert dangled a small parcel over Albus’ armchair, laughing when Albus tried to grab it without dropping his book. Her gaze was level, her eyes clear from terror or madness.

He finally managed to set the book down and caught the parcel, tearing at it with gusto until a pair of enormous, wooly socks fell out. They had obviously been made by an amateur knitter; one was a good inch longer than the other, holes gaped in the heels and in the toes. They were an unforgivably atrocious shade of purple. But as Albus watched, his mirror-self stared for just a moment, grinning madly, before reaching back and pulling Gellert down for a long kiss. Ariana looked on fondly, still laughing.

With an enormous effort, he tore himself away from the mirror, stumbling back to sag against an unused desk. He took a moment to compose himself, then turned his back on the mirror and walked out of the classroom, feeling old and tired. There wasn’t much Albus Dumbledore couldn’t have, but, he thought with just the slightest allowance for old, soured bitterness, sometimes that fact didn’t offer the comfort it should have. 

The mirror could wait until the morning to be enchanted and moved. Right now all he wanted was a fire to sit in front of and perhaps a warm cup of tea to fight the chill seeping into his bones. He could allow himself this one night of grief for things past.

Had Harry disobeyed his headmaster and returned to look into the Mirror of Erised one last time, he might not have even recognized the old man walking slowly down the hall away from the unused classroom, shoulders hunched and head hung low, as if bowed under a heavy weight.


End file.
